


Stitched

by asweetepilogue, julek, multiplelizards, Naughty_Yorick, theamazingbard, wherethewordsare



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Collaboration, Fluff, Getting Together, Gift Giving, M/M, Soft Pining, geralt being a sneaky little shit, happy valentines day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:14:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asweetepilogue/pseuds/asweetepilogue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/julek/pseuds/julek, https://archiveofourown.org/users/multiplelizards/pseuds/multiplelizards, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theamazingbard/pseuds/theamazingbard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherethewordsare/pseuds/wherethewordsare
Summary: What do you get the bard that you've never gotten anything before? Geralt learns a new skill and threads something together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 246
Collections: Best Geralt





	Stitched

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is your friendly neighborhood Jay! A little background on this fic and maybe some explanation to the surprisingly large co-writers list!! This was a collaboration between six writers, we set out with a prompt, unknown to the whole group, the next person only being able to see the fic when the one before had finished. We all rolled a d6 and times it by 100 and that was our word count a piece! This fic train was so much fun@ So with that in mind, please enjoy!! Below is the list of our writers in the order their work appears!! 
> 
> [Julek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/julek) (same on [tumblr](https://julek.tumblr.com))  
> [asweetepilogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asweetepilogue) (asweetprologue on [tumblr](https://asweetprologue.tumblr.com))  
> [Naughty_Yorick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick) (a-kind-of-merry-war on [tumblr)](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com)  
> [JaineyBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaineyBaby) (wherethewords are on [tumblr](https://wherethewordsare.tumblr.com))  
> [theamazingbard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theamazingbard) (same on [tumblr](https://theamazingbard.tumblr.com))  
> [multiplelizards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/multiplelizards) (writinglizards on [tumblr](https://writinglizards.tumblr.com/))
> 
> Each section is separated by a *

To say Geralt is a man of action would be an understatement. He is good with his hands and better with a sword — he can fight and deflect, plan and surprise. Words aren’t his strong suit, and he never needed them to be, not in his line of work, at least; chatting up villagers and debating with nobles were never part of his schedule, let alone his interests. He’s never  _ needed  _ words —they certainly haven’t done him any good in the past— and, in his humble opinion, it’s much more straightforward to just  _ do  _ things, whether it be breaking a nobleman’s nose or riding out of a town at full speed, angry mob following close behind. 

It works. It’s pragmatic, even. More efficient and to the point. 

Or so he keeps telling himself when a colorful bard draped in obnoxiously striking colors attaches himself to the Witcher’s metaphorical hip, and he finds that he’s a little bit in love. Jaskier is  _ loud _ , he’s all pretty rhymes and flowery speech, and, for a moment, Geralt thinks he might combust from all that energy. (He doesn’t, but the fear lingers). Jaskier expects answers to his inquiries and questions in return; he longs for extensive, cadenced conversations in the small hours of the night; he wants advice and opinions on his musical compositions — and Geralt yearns to give all of that to him, wishes to be the companion he knows the bard deserves, but… he can’t. 

He’s tried, which is how he can tell it’s a lost cause, but it all falls flat and is somewhat off-putting — his concern comes off as annoyance, words that are meant to be comforting come out as patronizing, his genuine interest in the bard misinterpreted as ironic. It’s tiresome, to try to reach and find words that were never within him in the first place, to try to show his affection in a way that Jaskier would understand when his nature tells him to do the opposite. 

One night, as Jaskier snores softly on his bedroll and Geralt sharpens his hunting knife by the firelight, his movements still with a thought — he doesn’t  _ have  _ to pretend for Jaskier. He doesn’t need to find words to let the bard know how deeply he cares for him, how his days were somber and dull before he came into his life, how he fills his life with song and light and love— 

Maybe the bard’s been rubbing off on him. Still, even if he can’t meet Jaskier’s questions with more than a nod or a shrug, even if sometimes he chokes on an answer and earns a playful shove and an  _ oh, my dear Witcher, man of few words,  _ even if Jaskier’s language clearly is full of freely given terms of endearment and intricate prose, he can try to meet him halfway on his own terms. 

Watching the shadows dance on Jaskier’s face, Geralt makes up a plan. 

*

Witchers are extremely self-reliant creatures, or at least they try to be. Though the sharpest memories of his childhood are still those tinged with blood and fear, there were other, quieter moments as well. Nights spent kneeling in the cool grass bending spring-green branches into wicked little snares. Afternoons pulling up roots and flower buds, older witchers pointing out what was good for potions, what you could eat in a pinch, what would make your stew taste better when the meat had gone off. Pelts were stretched, tanned, and worked into padded armor. The mountains around Kaer Morhen didn’t allow for the kind of planting that would be needed to manufacture their own cloth, but at least twice a year a supply of linen and cotton bolts would be brought up from the south and they would hand stitch their own rough clothing together.  _ If you have to buy it _ , Vesemir would say,  _ that’s one less coin to put towards your sword.  _

But a witcher’s skills are, in all ways, about functionality. Geralt wants more than that for Jaskier. If he can’t use his words to show how he cares, his actions have to leave nothing up for interpretation. 

So the next time they are separated and he finds himself on the doorstep of a young widow asking him for a price, he sees the neat little rows of embroidered flowers on her collar and says, “How about a lesson?”

Which is how he ends up spending several hours after a hunt sitting in a warm little cottage, learning about thread weight and running stitches and backing. The widow leaves him with a small package of needles and vibrant colored threads, and a warm loaf of oat bread fresh from her oven. Geralt rejoins Jaskier with a bit of excitement stirring within him, watching the bard chatter away as they share an ale. When Jaskier says he missed him, Geralt just hums and thinks about yellows and blues and greens flashing at the column of Jaskier’s pale throat.

It takes some time to execute the scheme. Jaskier is around almost constantly, and Geralt has to steal a shirt from him at one point just to get his measurements. He doesn’t want to ruin the surprise, wants to see the pure shock and delight on Jaskier’s face when he hands him the finished product. At least, Geralt hopes it will be delight he sees. Working by the firelight when Jaskier is asleep, he reworks the pattern half a dozen times, trying to get it just right. It has to be perfect, he thinks. It has to mean something, something all his hums and grunts can’t seem to convey. 

*

Late one night, while Jaskier is gently snoring next to the fire, Geralt is struck with the sudden fear that it’s too small, or too big, or the sleeves too long or the chest too short. He’d taken the measurements four times from the pilfered shirt before returning it to Jaskier’s pack: but now that he can actually see the nearly finished product he’s doubting himself.

It’s the cuffs, he thinks. The cuffs  _ were _ perfect when he’d stitched the seams together, but the clumsy embroidery has tightened the fabric, pinching it, removing some of the give.

It  _ needs  _ to fit. 

He takes a scrap of fabric and a nub of charcoal from the spent fire then edges to Jaskier’s sleeping side. The bard is sprawled on his back, one arm over his chest, his mouth hanging open. Carefully, moving as slowly as he would during a hunt, Geralt reaches out and grasps one of Jaskier’s hands.

Jaskier twitches in his sleep with a snort, and Geralt freezes, sure he’s been found out. But he doesn’t open his eyes.

After a long, watchful moment Geralt pulls Jaskier’s hand towards him till it lies limply in his lap. He takes the scrap of fabric, just half an inch wide, and gently wraps it around Jaskier’s wrist. It’s a crude measuring tape, he thinks: but it’ll do. He presses the charcoal to the point where the fabric overlaps itself, leaving a dark black mark on the cream-coloured linen.

His thumb presses into Jaskier’s wrist. The skin here is soft and warm, and Geralt can feel his heartbeat beneath his hands. It’s slow but sure - he must be deeply asleep. Geralt tugs the marked fabric away, shoving it quickly into a pocket, but his other hand lingers.

Jaskier’s skin contrasts smoothly against the coarseness of Geralt’s thumb. There’s an urge in Geralt’s stomach, a twisting, writhing thing that makes him act instinctively. 

Barely thinking, he lifts Jaskier’s hand till his lips are hovering above his wrist, above the steadying thrum of his pulse. He wonders what it would be like to plant a kiss there, where the skin is supple and hot. His breath skitters across Jaskier’s arm, disturbing the hair whorling across it. Even over the ashy after smell of the fire, he can detect the lingering scent of lavender.

Jaskier twitches again. Geralt freezes once more as he wiggles on the bedroll, brow furrowed. If he wakes now, it will be disastrous. No amount of painstakingly sewn shirts can save him from this attempted intimacy, from how close he is to stealing something from him.

And it  _ does _ feel like theft. To press his lips to Jaskeir’s skin, even the chaste skin of his wrist would be taking something that Jaskier is not willingly giving.

Watching Jaskier’s face carefully for a sign that he may wake, he gently lowers his hand back down. Jaskier shudders a little, eyelids twitching, lips parting.

He mutters something, the rushed words sounding like a language Geralt cannot speak. Then, through the agitated muttering, a sound he recognizes.

“ _ Geralt _ …”

There’s an ache in Geralt’s chest, twin fists squeezing the air from his lungs. He waits but is only met with silence. Silence, of course, apart from the occasional snore. He backs away from Jaskier’s gently sleeping form, back to his position on the other side of the fire and his meticulous work.

He reaches into his pocket, his fingers fiddling with the little scrap of fabric, the stolen measurement of Jaskier’s wrist.

Later, when he places it against the heavy fabric of the embroidered linen, it’s a perfect fit.

*

It occurs to him that he’s never done this before, this gift-giving business. He and his brothers would exchange white gull when they came across one another or he would pick up rare volumes for Vesemir if he came across them because they were useful. But that wasn’t this. So he’s determined to do it right.

_ “Why is it wrapped like that?” Geralt asked over the rim of his cup. _

_ “To keep it a surprise!” Jaskier looked over at him, his face a mixture of amusement and incredulity. It was almost fond.  _

_ “Hm.” _

_ “You find it impractical, don’t you?” Jaskier teased. “Of course you would, witcher,” he clucked his tongue at Geralt and waved down the barmaid. _

Geralt slips away from Jaskier in a busy market and finds the butcher. He trades a copper for a sheet of unstained paper and folds it carefully away into his bag. He’s been to festivals, he’s seen gifts given. 

As he makes his way back to Jaskier, he passes a seamstress and stops in his tracks. There on a spool is a thick ribbon, cornflower blue and even before he can press his calloused fingers to it, he knows it’s incredibly soft. 

*

Jaskier’s performance tonight is fortuitous, to say the least. It gives Geralt just enough time to put the finishing touches on the embroidery. Though he’s anxious to have this project finished and he’s looking forward to seeing the surprise on Jaskier’s face, he’s somewhat disappointed that he won’t have something to occupy his fingers at night anymore. 

When sleep was particularly difficult to come by, he had his project to quiet his mind. A form of meditation that also produced a gift for his—

Well. 

After all this time, he struggles with what Jaskier really is to him. “Friend” doesn’t quite cover how important he is. “Partner” is a mite too intimate, especially since Geralt hasn’t been forthcoming about his  _ feelings _ . Looking down at his creation, the delicate flowers in bright colors, he’s hoping that it will inspire Jaskier himself to define what their relationship is. Even if it’s of a more platonic nature, at least then he will know for sure. 

He frowns and runs his fingers over the colorful embroidery one final time. Tomorrow, he promises himself. Tomorrow Geralt will hand the gift to him and he will know how Geralt feels. 

Slowly, he wraps the gift in the brown paper. He ties the blue ribbon tightly around the package, but not so tight that it will be difficult to open. Then, he stashes it away in his bag, right next to a spare blanket. 

Now, though, Geralt is tired as fuck. Night after night he’s been awake preparing this moment. With it being finished and waiting, he sits down on their shared bed at the inn meaning to meditate. As soon as his eyes close, however, he falls straight to sleep. 

And wakes up to the sound of Jaskier exclaiming in surprise: “Oh!” 

Geralt jerks upwards, something akin to panic making his heart beat faster. 

“Geralt, what is  _ this _ ?” Jaskier turns the package in his hands, eyes wide and full of mischief. “Here I was, shivering in this frigid mess of a room because  _ someone  _ decided to sleep on top of the blankets. So, I say to myself, ‘self! Geralt has an extra blanket in his bag. I’ll just grab that so as not to disturb the slumbering witcher.’ And what do I find but a present! Is it from someone?” He brings it up to his ear and gives it a good shake as if whatever sound it might make would give him a clue. “Or! Is it a gift for someone else?  _ Hm _ ?” 

Words fail him, as they so often do. Instinct tells him to snatch the gift away, to tell Jaskier to wait until the morning. That would probably ruin the entire purpose of the gift. “It’s for you.” He grunts out. 

Jaskier’s teasing expression eases into gentle surprise. “For me?” He lowers the package, sits on the bed, and places it on his lap. “Could I open it now?” 

What else can Geralt do but nod? 

He watches with bated breath as Jaskier opens the gift. 

*

Jaskier rubs the edge of the ribbon between thumb and forefinger gently, and Geralt's heart is in his throat. The knot isn't pretty, like the bows on Jaskier's clothes so often are—it's practical—but Jaskier savors it as if it's beautiful as he picks the knot apart with careful fingers.

The ribbon removed, Jaskier runs it through his hands, feeling the texture. "This would look pretty in your hair, love," he smiles, and Geralt can feel his cheeks heat.

"Hm." Jaskier grins, small and teasing.

"Does that mean I can tie your hair back, darling?"

"Open the fucking gift, Jaskier." 

Jaskier laughs, a bright, joyful sound. "I am, I am," he soothes, even as he unwraps the plain paper. At the first glimpse of fabric, he stills.

"Geralt, is this—?" he trails off, and Geralt stares resolutely at Jaskier's hands, the edge of the shirt, and refuses to meet his gaze. Jaskier pulls it free from the paper and unfolds it, lets the fabric hang from his fingers as he gets his first look at the collar, the delicately embroidered flowers. The shirt is black, a strikingly deep color, like Geralt's own shirts. And the flowers—the flowers are stunning, butter yellow and cornflower blue, curling around the collar. "Where did you get this?"

"I—" he clears his throat, fights past the lump there. Jaskier doesn't look upset. Far from it, he looks— "I made it."

"You—you  _ made _ it? Geralt, I—" his hands are shaking, "can I try it on?" Geralt doesn't trust his voice, so he only nods, short and sharp.

He offers Geralt a smile, a little timid, and then he's stripping off his sleep shirt and pulling on Geralt's gift.

The anxiety that swells in his chest in response is almost too much, almost worse than watching him open the gift to begin with. If it doesn't fit—

"How's it look, darling?" Jaskier asks, fussily adjusting the buttons at his throat and cuffs. He's smiling, a smile that slips wider and more delighted with every passing moment.

"Good," Geralt grunts. Jaskier beams.

"It  _ does _ , doesn't it?" He twists to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room, winks at his reflection. His expression softens into something Geralt can't name as he turns back to him. "This is… an incredible gift, Geralt."

"Mm."

He steps in close, brushes his fingers gently along Geralt's shoulder, just barely touching. "A gift this nice deserves thanks," he says, eyes shining with emotion. "Can I—" his eyes flick down to Geralt's lips and back up just as quickly, "—can I kiss you?"

The fact that he even has to  _ ask _ —

Geralt nods, eyes unintentionally locked on Jaskier's lips. He's watching closely enough that he gets to watch them tilt up into a soft smile seconds before Jaskier loops an arm around his neck and kisses him.

It's slow and sweet, makes Geralt's knees a little weak. When Jaskier finally pulls back, Geralt feels winded, like he's been fighting for hours.

"Thank you, Geralt," Jaskier breathes, resting their foreheads together. He presses his lips against Geralt's again briefly, as if helpless to stop now that he's started.

No, Geralt thinks skimming a hand down the pretty fabric hiding Jaskier's strong shoulders, he doesn't have to pretend for Jaskier. He already knows.


End file.
